


I've Come to Burn Your Kingdom Down

by Izzylike



Series: If You Go Out in the Woods Today [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, what have I done?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:38:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzylike/pseuds/Izzylike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks down at her with enraged Tully-eyes, war painted face speckled with blood, and he is beautiful, auburn hair shaved short on either side of the long braid that trails down his back. He pulls her up by her jerkin, and she does not flinch, only keeps her eyes set firmly on his.</p><p>Edited: 3/31/14</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Come to Burn Your Kingdom Down

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally really fluffy, honest. I just...ruined it with my hands of destruction.

She is a girl when his lord father is beheaded, when her sister and his brother are slayed at the hands of the Frey, when the kingdom fell to ruin. He was a child not much younger than she.  


She travels quickly when the smoke of rumor that he has returned reaches her. She is the first to offer her mace to his cause, bending the knee while keeping fierce eyes trained on him. He looks down at her with enraged Tully-eyes, war painted face speckled with blood, and he is beautiful, auburn hair shaved short on either side of the long braid that trails down his back. He pulls her up by her jerkin, dragging her to her feet, and she does not flinch, only keeps her eyes set firmly on his.  


He sneers, showing teeth, before spitting out that he will treat her as he treats any of his warriors, that her sex makes her no different to him. He tells her, voice rough and accented heavily with the Old Tongue, that if she fails him, falters in anyway, becomes useless, he will take her life as payment.  


Just as her eldest sister before her, she throws herself full-heartedly into ensuring that the youngest son of Eddard Stark overcomes any opponent he may face.  
She will break all that oppose him.  


Her jerkin and breeches are so coated in blood that it will not come out, no matter how hard she scrubs, so she replaces her jerkin with the hides and pelts that the Skagosi wear and paints their war paint on her face. Her hair has long since formed knots and tangles that will not come out. She doubts her mother would recognize her, were she alive.  


Her mace ends many. The ground is red with Bolton blood, mixed with all those who aligned themselves with the banner bearing a flayed man.  
Northerners call him a wolf, like they had his eldest brother, but he is not called young. Rabid they call him, lost to animal instinct.  
It suits him.  
She is becoming rabid as well, and he seems to approve.

It is when they reach Torrhen's Square, after a particularly bloody battle still running down those who have wronged him, that he stalks to where she will lay for the night on the edge of camp, blood sill unwashed from his skin. She is caught off guard and he takes her reaction in stride, uses the time to throw her down on the furs she's made her bed. When he drops to the furs, she shoots out a foot to shove him forcefully back with a low grown, baring her teeth to him as she's seen Skagosi do. He spits a curse in the Old Tongue in response and throws himself atop her, asserting dominance has become top priority.  


They struggle against one another, and it is not until she flips him onto his back and straddles his hips that he stills, if only momentarily.  
She crashes her mouth against his, hands fisting in the pelts that cover his chest to pull him closer, blood singing in her veins as it must be singing in his own. Digging her nails into his shoulder with one hand, she makes quick work of unlacing his breeches with the other. He pulls away and brings his hands up to hold her hips tightly.  
Their fellow warriors continue to slumber, some stirring or mumbling in their birth-tongues.  
He struggles with her breeches, which ends in their ruin by his wild hands. With that, he grins up at her, pupils blown and teeth bared.  


They do not waste time kissing or whispering sweet nothings to each other. She brings her hands to his back and once again digs her nails into his flesh as she lowers herself onto him, baring her own teeth to him and staring into his eyes. A sound very much like a snarl erupts from his lips briefly at the contact, before he moves forward to embed his teeth in her shoulder for a moment. His hold on her hips takes on a bruising intensity, and he thrusts into her without a care. She meets him thrust for thrust.  
Briefly she wonders who else in their war party he is fucking, but she abandons the thought as he hits that spot inside of her.  
It does not take long for him to find his release within her, letting out a howl as he does so. She grits her teeth before resting her forehead on his sweat coated shoulder. Once he has recovered he pushes her off of him and goes about getting redressed. He does not look at her once and leaves her laying on her furs when he's relaced his breeches.  
She cannot help but frown at her ruined breeches before tying them together and laying back to sleep.  


In the morning she cannot ignore the toothy grin some of the men give her, and she returns them with a snarl and curse in the Old Tongue. One man thinks himself worth her and finds his end at her hands.  
There is not better show of dominance.  


It is not long before the fucking becomes routine. Always after battle, always with blood still on him. And always she is astride him.  


It is when she finds she cannot keep her food down in when fast is broken that she knows his seed has taken root within her. She knows she should not battle, but the thought of abstaining chills her blood in the most unpleasant of ways.  
She fights alongside him as she always had, though she is far more careful - choosing her opponent before she strikes, precision perfect. If he learns of her condition he will surely end her as he'd once promised.  


She keeps it hidden as long as she can.  
The fighting and fucking remains routine.  
Until she can no longer keep the truth from him.  


He comes to her, coated in blood and showing his teeth in a dark mockery of a smile. She hisses him to leave her be and surely he is shocked when she fights him, refusing his attempt to lay with her. For once he wins their wrestling match, and when he pulls her pelts from her, rage shining bright in his Tully-eyes, she curls herself to protect her belly, an attempt to hide its swelling. His snarl dies before it can leave his lips and he snatches her arms from her abdomen. The rage that is always in his eyes clouds with something she cannot name. He drops her arms and a hand moves over the handle of one of his axes.  


She closes her eyes and waits for the steel to bit into her flesh and end her. She forces her mind blank and breaths calmly. As if going to sleep.  
The axe does not come within five-and-ten heartbeats, and she opens her eyes, glances up to see him standing above her. He throws his own pelts to her before he backs away from her.  


"Leave."  


And she does.  


Lyanna Mormont runs from the Rabid Wolf as fast as her legs can carry her, not once looking back.  


She runs until she cannot see the battlefield they'd fought on, until she cannot hear their rejoicing, until she near collapses. She sits for a moment after this, breathing deeply, thinking of what to do next.  
She washes the war paint and blood from her skin as soon as she finds a stream, scrubbing until her flesh is raw.  


She hears of the Rabid Wolf on Bear Island as her belly continues to grows with child - she does not speak of it and her sisters do not ask. He is painted as a bloodthirsty monster by most and a misunderstood savior by others. 

She births her son during a snowstorm, shouts swallowed by the winds. Her sisters take turns holding her hands within their own and breathing words of confidence to her. He slides forth from between her thighs unbreathing, and she feels a scream forming in her very soul before Lyra swats him on his back, and his shrill cry fills her ears. Once the afterbirth has come out as well, and her babe is cleaned she is given him. He's a small, red-faced thing, a tuft of dark auburn hair on his head and tiny hands flailing for her angrily.  


She names him Osric and carries him close to her always.  


She sets herself to becoming the best mother she can be for her son and thinks of nothing else. She does all she can do and then some. She puts her war-time behind her and focuses solely on her son.  


Once the Rabid Wolf has killed all those who'd wronged him, his family, the Skagosi return to their island, taking with them the things they had claimed as their own. And he with them.  
Or so she thought.  


He comes to her with his direwolf and demands go to Skagos. Something inside her hurts deeply at this, for she wants to but knows she cannot. She thinks he means to argue, to drag her away with him, but Osric cries for her, and, without looking to the man she may have loved, she goes to her son as quick as she can. When she turns back to see the youngest Stark, she finds he has already gone.  


Or perhaps he was never there. She does not know and instead soothes Osric back to sleep.


End file.
